NTR wasn't the first Indian movie star to assume control of the destinies of his fans. That distinction belongs to MGR, the actor M. G. Ramachandran of the adjoining state of Tamil Nadu. At about the time George Murphy was singing and dancing into the Senate from California in 1964, the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) Party in the (then) state of Madras was using the film world to bolster its burgeoning popularity. The party's leader, C. N. Annadurai (“Anna”), had long cultivated links with the Tamil film industry, and his principal lieutenant, M. Karunanidhi, was a prolific screenwriter. The DMK's biggest draw was the action hero MGR, a sort of Arnold without the pectorals, who brawled and romanced his way into the hearts of millions in blockbuster after blockbuster. Karunanidhi wrote films for MGR that contained stirring speeches about Dravidian pride, a major theme of the DMK, and barely veiled allusions to the rising sun, the party's electoral symbol. In 1967 the DMK rode into office on the votes of avid moviegoers, defeating the stately Congress Party (which sought in vain to counter MGR's appeal by enlisting the aging romantic hero Sivaji Ganesan). Annadurai became chief minister, and MGR stayed in the movies.
But when “Anna” died and Karunanidhi ascended to the top spot in the now renamed state of Tamil Nadu, MGR began to ask himself why he needed to play second fiddle in politics when he enjoyed top billing in the movies. The Congress Party, unable to defeat the DMK at the hustings, wooed him shamelessly; government interference was widely suspected in the decision to award him a national best actor award for a hokey performance as a rickshaw puller. In short order MGR split the DMK, founding the All-India Anna DMK (AIADMK) and winning a majority of seats in the state assembly at the next elections (with the support of the Congress Party). Though Karunanidhi's DMK and MGR's AIADMK briefly alternated in power in Tamil Nadu, MGR soon proved unchallengeable at the polls, demonstrating yet again that movie stars always trump screenwriters (even those on whom they used to depend for their best lines).
So great and so enduring was MGR's popularity as chief minister that when, toward the end of his career, he suffered a debilitating stroke, his party could not afford to let him relinquish office. At the mass rallies thronged by millions that were the AIADMK's principal means of mobilizing support, the speechless and nearly immobile movie star would be propped up on a high stage in his trademark wool cap and dark glasses, while recordings of his past speeches would be played on the sound system to fool the distant crowds into thinking he was addressing them. It worked for a while, but mortality took its course and the AIADMK itself split as MGR's wife and his close companion, both former leading ladies from his screen days, fought over his legacy. The wife won out briefly and succeeded him as chief minister, but her legitimacy was marital, not political. The Other Woman (in her day a far more popular movie star), Jayalalitha, wrested control of the AIADMK, using her fan clubs to bolster her appeal to the voters. She went on to win state elections and become chief minister in her own right.
India's is a federal system, and the appeal of politicians like NTR and MGR remains largely confined to their home states, which speak the language of the films they starred in (Telugu and Tamil, respectively). The closest India has to a nationwide film industry are the Hindi movies made by Bollywood, whose actors have also tried to translate box office appeal into votes. But none of them has sought to dislodge established political leaders in the northern states; they have, instead, aimed for seats in the national Parliament. Bollywood's biggest superstar, Amitabh Bachchan, was elected to Parliament at the peak of his career as a member of the Congress Party, but became rapidly disillusioned with political life and resigned his seat to return to the movies. Others have awaited the end of their movie careers before making the transition, and two even served in the country's Council of Ministers — the former “hero” Vinod Khanna as a deputy minister for tourism and the former “villain” Shatrughan Sinha as a minister for health (which puts an on-screen sexual harasser in charge of India's battle against AIDS).
Movie appeal doesn't always work. In the highly literate state of Kerala, which boasts the sophisticated cinema of Adoor Gopalakrishnan and others, a box office hero, Prem Nazir, tried to enter the hustings and fared so badly he lost his security deposit. Cinematic popularity can get you elected, but it isn't enough to keep you in power. Jayalalitha's reputation for imperiousness and corruption has seen Karunanidhi defeat her twice, though she has bounced back each time (and is unlikely to have served her last term in power as chief minister of Tamil Nadu).
NTR, however, found his magic wearing thin during his first term and lost office comprehensively when he sought reelection. He fought back, augmenting his movie star appeal with populist calls for subsidized rice for the poor, and returned to power. But within months he faced a revolt within his own party, led by his technocratic and unglamorous son-in-law. NTR was unceremoniously ousted as chief minister, suffered a heart attack, and died soon after.
Unlike in his movies, there was no resurrection for NTR. The temple dedicated to him lies in ruins. No one worships there anymore.
9. Democracy and Demockery
SOCIOLOGISTS HAVE ANALYZED THE CLASS COMPOSITION of India's legislatures and traced an important change from a post-independence Parliament dominated by highly educated professionals to one more truly representative of the rural heartland of India. The typical member of Parliament today, the wry joke runs, is a lower-caste farmer with a law degree he's never used.
However, the fact that, particularly in the northern states, our voters elect people referred to openly in the press as “mafia dons,” “dacoit leaders,” and “antisocial elements” is a poor reflection on the way the electoral process has served Indian democracy. The resultant alienation of the educated middle class means that fewer and fewer of them go to the polls on election day.
The abstention of the highly educated from the ballot is only a symptom of a more debilitating loss of faith in the political process itself. Only 25 percent of Indians questioned in a Gallup poll in April 1996 expressed confidence in Parliament (whereas, in comparison, 77 percent said they trusted the judiciary). I have been unable to find more recent polls, but I would be surprised if the figures are much higher.
Defections and horse-trading are common, political principle rare. The spectacle of legislators in one state assembly after another being “‘paraded’” before a Speaker or a governor to prove a contested majority, or — worse still — being “held hostage” in hotels by their leaders so they cannot be suborned by rivals until their claims to the majority are accepted, has done little to inspire confidence in the integrity of India's parliamentarians.
Don't get me wrong: I am not some elitist lamenting the country's takeover by the poor. The significant changes in the social composition of India's ruling class, both in politics and in the bureaucracy, since independence is indeed proof of democracy at work. But the poor quality of the country's political leadership in general offers less cause for celebration. Our rulers increasingly reflect the qualities required to acquire power rather than the skills to wield it for the common good.